


Forget-Me-Nots

by mugsandpugs



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Demonic Possession, Gen, Illusions of Gore, Implied Past Billford, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Nightmares, Possession, Protective Siblings, Temptation, Violent Illusions, violent nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon-Divergent AU: Gravity Falls is in extreme disrepair following the events of Weirdmageddon. While helping to put it back together, Ford realizes that his brother is a better con artist than he ever knew, and Stan faked the return of his own memories. Not only that, but Bill is not as gone as they once believed. Past Bill/Ford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So Much for the Scientific Method

**Author's Note:**

> _"You think you want to know something, and then once you do, all you can think about is erasing it from your mind."_
> 
> \- Sue Monk Kidd, _The Secret Life of Bees_

Genius he might be, but it took Ford far too long to put it together, considering the mountain of evidence that was practically piled at his feet.

He and Stan stood shoulder-to-shoulder as the bus took their great-niece and nephew away, waving until it rounded the corner before their smiles, identical as the rest of them, dropped away and left only weariness in its place. 

"Good kids," Stan said, when he noticed Ford looking at him. "Hope they get home safe." 

He seemed a bit overheated in the thick sweater Mabel knitted for him; it didn't surprise Ford that she'd made only the one. Aside from being pressed for time, it was Stan she'd grown close to. Stan had saved the world. No matter what happened as Mabel grew up, the twelve-year-old version of herself would always view Stan as her hero. 

Abruptly Stan turned and began the short walk from the bus station to the woods that lead to his- their?- home, without so much as saying goodbye to Soos. Despite Ford’s status as the introverted twin, he nevertheless felt obligated to clap the young man on his shoulder before catching up with his sibling. 

This didn't prove especially hard to do, as he saw his brother's back at a fork in the woods, stiff and uncertain as his head swiveled left and right, contemplating paths. 

"Having trouble?" Ford asked, and chuckled a little. "We're old, but we're not _that_ old. You've been squatting at my house for thirty years now." 

"Has it really been thirty?" Stan asked, and then cleared his throat. "I just thought maybe we could take the scenic route today. But feel free to lead the way, man of the house.” He gave a wide, jovial grin and a little bow, gesturing comically with his hand. 

Something about this felt off. Stan was the leader, always. Had he really changed so much since Ford had served his time caught between dimensions? 

An unpleasant thought came to mind, and the scientist in him forced Ford to test the blooming theory. He took the lead, guiding them expressionlessly down down the incorrect woodland path. Stan said nothing and followed obligingly behind, his sneakered footfalls soft to the ear. 

Wondering how long it would take before Stan spoke up, Ford continued boldly ahead. The path of grass and stone, stomped down by hundreds of feet over the course of decades, meandered vaguely in the direction of the lake. The house where the family of redheads lived- including the one Dipper seemed so fond of- could be glimpsed between trees. 

It was precisely forty-two steps- Ford, of course, had counted- before Stan’s voice carried over, a chuckle woven in his words. "You trickster. You thought you had me fooled." 

The relief that flooded Ford was quick and soothing but was halted once more by suspicion. He tried to play it off as nonchalance. "What's a twin for, if not for messing with his brother?" 

Stan laughed, a chesty and deep sound that reminded Ford of their father, and threw a commoderly arm over his brother’s shoulders. "You took the words right outta my mouth," he chuckled. They then walked that way, a four-legged creature returning to it’s habitat. 

As when they’d left it, the shack was still in shambles. The first night they had tried to stay there a loose chunk of plaster had fallen mere inches from Dipper's sleeping face. The four of them had collectively decided it best to spend the children's last week in Gravity Falls at the hastily constructed community safehouse. 

"Talk about your fixer-upper," Stan whistled low under his breath, glancing up to see birds perching on the exposed rafters of what had once served as the kids’ attic bedroom. 

Ford nodded in disheartened agreement. "It took me ages to build this house," he sighed, kicking at a shattered piece of glass on the so-called floor. "But it was worth it." This, he knew, was truth. The children were safe now; what else mattered? 

Stan brightened at the information. "You built it?" he asked, a crooked smile on his face. "I bet that was fun for that big brain of yours, drawing up those blueprints. Triangular windows all over the place- who does that!" 

Who indeed, Ford thought moodily. Just a fool in love with his own brilliance, too nearsighted to see the dangers all around, and within. 

"Don't worry bro," Stan interrupted his thoughts. "If you built it, we can rebuild it. Better than ever." 

To emphasize his point he bent and flipped the dining table to its correct position, dusting off the surface. "Dinner's on me tonight," he said, and Ford gave a tiny smile, anxiety temporarily abated. 

They worked together for several hours, picking through the wreckage with garbage bags and thick gloves as they threw out the wood and glass too splintered to salvage and set aside the bigger pieces for recycling. 

Stan left around dusk to pick up dinner from the still-operating kitchen in town; he was gone a long time but Ford thought nothing of it. It wasn't exactly a short walk now that they had no car, and everybody in town was no doubt lined up for the same reason. 

When Stan returned it was fully dark, with twinkling stars visible through the holes in the walls and ceiling. He carried with him a canvas sack and, upon letting himself inside, he carefully set down two mason jars of soup and some thick bread. Ford went to look for any bowls and silverware that had survived the apocalypse. 

"There's dessert too," Stan grinned, lifting out a third container that encompassed what could only be two slices of slightly soggy strawberry pound cake. 

Ford's smile froze in place as he stared at the food. Picking up the change in mood instantly, Stan’s own smile slipped. 

"Is this some kind of joke?" Ford asked, hoping that was all it was. "Are you testing me again?" 

"Testing?" Stan frowned. "What do you mean? Aren't you hungry?" 

Ford was ravenous, but that was beside the point. "Stan, we're deathly allergic to strawberries!" 

"... Oh." Stan looked at the cake- thick yellow wedges oozing with red syrup and sliced fruit. Even one bite would have them swollen and asphyxiating on the floor, medical personnel too overworked and understocked already to make it in time and no functioning phone lines to summon them with anyway. "I guess I forgot. There's still soup though, no strawberries in there." 

It was then that Ford knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the awful truth. "Your memories really _are_ gone. You were just faking their return, weren't you Stanley." 

It made perfect sense. Stan was, by nature, a con artist. He could read people and situations enough to get by, but the man truly had no idea who he was. "For hell's sake, Stan!" Ford exploded. "For a whole week you've flown by on dumb luck! Why didn't you say anything?!" 

He felt so overwhelmed by the magnitude of their situation that he had to lean against the table, head spinning. If Stanley had thought to snack on his walk home... Well, then he wouldn't have a brother anymore. 

Stan fidgeted, looking anywhere but at Ford's face. He knew when he was caught. "It was that little girl," he admitted. "Mabel. Her face. I couldn't stand it! She wanted so badly for me to know her that I..." 

Ford groaned and rubbed at his tired eyes. Of course. Mabel. Even when he didn't know who she was, Stan would have moved mountains for her. "Oh boy," he sighed. "Oh, man..." 

"Hey, hey!" Stan protested, waving his hands in the air as if he were clearing off an imaginary chalkboard. "It's no big deal, really. I'll just figure it out as we go along. Don't worry about it..." He was silenced by the stern look his brother shot him. 

"One thing you've forgotten," Stanford said, "is that you can lie to anyone else, but not to me. I know you like I know myself, and I can tell you're scared." 

Finally, _finally,_ Stan dropped the act. He lost his cocky grin, and suddenly he looked both older than Ford had ever seen him and altogether too frightened, too naive. "What do you want me to say, Ford?" he asked helplessly. "I woke up a blank slate in a forest and everything's so messed up. Everyone's saying I'm a hero or something and wanting me to smile and own it and I don't know what to do. Heck; the only thing I know about _you_ is that you look the spitting image of the guy I see when I look in the mirror." 

He was giving Ford the terrible pleading eyes that he'd worn every time they'd gotten into trouble as children. _Don't tell dad, Ford. I didn't mean to throw a baseball through the window._ _Make this make sense, Ford._ _You can fix this, right Ford?_

“Alright,” Ford sighed, deflating slightly. He didn’t see any dining chairs that had made it intact through the many ordeals of the week prior, so he stood at the table instead and poured a jar of semi-warm soup (lamb and potato) into a bowl, inspecting it for a moment before pushing it over to Stan. Stan took it and began to sip cautiously, as if concerned a rogue and vengeful strawberry might appear at any moment. 

“I don’t think you’re allergic to anything else,” Ford said, because it was apparent Stan wouldn’t ask. “Definitely nothing quite that serious.” 

Stan looked relieved to hear this, and drank his soup with more vigor. Ford fought down the temptation to remind Stan that he had hated lamb Before. _Things are different now,_ he reminded himself. _You can’t go expecting everything to be the same._

### 

They were too exhausted to continue cleaning, yet they’d barely made a dent in the damages. The thought of the extensive work that lay ahead of them made Ford’s brain hurt. 

Stan half-heartedly suggested they walk back to town to sleep in the crowded community shelter but without the kids to protect, neither twin wanted to spend another night with Dan’s snoring, Susan’s sleep-talking, Toby’s morning breath. They were both too beat to do much else besides drag a mattress from under the rubble, brush as many splinters off of it as they could, and spread a blanket over the top of it before they were lying side-by-side in what could still be called the kitchen. 

Ford felt Stan fidgeting for a while, clearly uncomfortable. He might as well be lying next to a complete stranger, Ford thought dully. 

Finally Stan rolled flat onto his back, resembling a union jack with his limbs pinned to his sides, presumably to avoid touching Ford. “Our parents-” he ventured. It was apparent in his tone that this topic had lingered on his mind for some time, that only the illusion of security the dark provided could get such honesty out of him. 

“Long dead,” Ford replied shortly. 

“I figured. The kids?” 

“Our brother Shermie is their grandpop. He’s dead, too, before you ask. And no, we don’t have any more siblings.” He realized he sounded a bit short with his brother; this stemmed more from exhaustion than actual irritation, and he tried to keep it at bay. It was only natural Stan would wonder. 

“I don’t have kids, do I?” Stan asked in a worried voice, no doubt struggling to imagine himself as a father. 

Ford rolled onto his side, winced at a pricking sensation between his ribs, and reached underneath himself to brush the splinter away before speaking. “No. You were married for a little while. You invited me to the wedding but I didn’t go. I never met Carla.” 

He yawned and, clearly fearing his brother would soon fall asleep Stan concluded, “One more question. Were we… were we friends, Stanford? Did we like each other?” 

The genuine, innocent question made Ford’s chest hurt, and he struggled think of a concise, detached response. It was hard to do; there were too many feelings in that question, and now he was the only one left to feel them. “Sometimes we did,” he said. “And sometimes we didn’t. The same as any brothers, I guess.” The darkness suddenly seemed akin to a confessional booth, and he clamped his teeth down on anything else he might say. 

It wasn’t a lie, but it was close to it. They were a far cry from just “any” brothers. But the answer seemed to satisfy Stan, who a moment later was breathing slow and deep, asleep at last. 

\--- 


	2. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The dream was haunting me: standing behind me, present and yet invisible, like the back of my head, simultaneously there and not there."_
> 
> Neil Gamian, _The Ocean at the End of the Lane_

Just as it had been when they were children, Ford found himself alone and anxious late into the night while Stan dreamed peacefully beside him, blissfully unaware of his twin’s racing thoughts. Some things never changed.

He risked a glance at his brother and then found it hard to look away again as he slid into melancholy musings. In the dim light of the stars and moon, Stan appeared much younger than his years. 

Stan hadn't come to his graduation, and so he hadn't attended Stan's wedding. He'd had to deal with pop's death alone and, from old town newsletters he'd managed to dredge up from the depths of the internet, Shermie was the only Pines son available to attend ma’s services. 

Neither Stan nor Ford were there to congratulate Shermie when he became a father, nor could they support his widow and son when, just four years later, an accident took his life. It was such a sobering thought- that they were both robbed thirty years of life, had missed everything that counted and now the man sleeping beside him remained the only living remnant from his past. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. Even in the dark he could see the old burn scar on Stan's shoulder from their long-ago argument: dry, rough red skin in stark contrast to his naturally pale coloring. "For everything. If I could take it back I would in a heartbeat." 

"There you go again, thinking too much," came the reply, and Ford blinked in delayed surprise. 

"I'm, uh." He stammered, as Stan shifted to face him. "I thought you were sleeping." 

"You're a funny guy, Sixer, talking to sleeping people." and although Stan laughed, it was not Stan's laugh. When he opened his eyes, Ford felt his heart stop for a moment as he struggled to remember the mechanics of breathing. 

"We defeated you," he whispered, unable to look away from the slitted orbs that had replaced his brother's eyes. "You're gone!" 

"Guess again!" A grin most unlike Stan’s split his face in two, revealing wickedly gleaming teeth- row upon row of jagged shark’s ivory. When Ford blinked they were his normal teeth once more. "Oh, boo, don't make that face. You're just dreaming; I could be a regular old nightmare." 

Nightmare-Bill reached with Stan's fist and lightly tapped thick knuckles against the side of Ford's head. "See? Steel plate is still shipshape and all accounted for. You're fine. Just go ahead and tell yourself I'm not real." 

He wiggled his fingers mysteriously and blew a whooshing ghost breath into Ford's ear. Ford, wrenching himself away from Bill, fell from the mattress and onto the ground where grass tickled his bare arms. 

Bill propped Stan's head on his fist and regarded Ford, smug as the cat who ate the canary. "You went and got old, IQ," he chuckled. "Falling off of things, squinting without your glasses. Aren't physical bodies a riot!" He popped Stan's knuckles then, presumably for the joy of the sound it produced. 

Ford fought the urge to back away further. He wasn't a child anymore, hiding from his own mistakes. Even if this was a dream, he wasn't leaving Stan in the demon's clutches. Not again. This was fairly mild for a Bill-nightmare, all things considered. 

As if reading his thoughts, Bill's manic smile travelled Stan's face once again. "Oh, you _want_ to see something interesting? Hey Fordsie! Have you ever wondered what the exact color of Stan's stomach lining is?" 

Ford refused to be baited, and instead fixed Bill with a steeled gaze, folding his arms tight across his chest. "I'm not in the mood for your games," he said. "You need to get out of my brother's head right now." 

"Oh," Bill simpered, and batted Stan's eyelashes girlishly at Ford. "So authoritative." He clasped his hands below Stan’s chin and preened. "Would you prefer me in _your_ head instead? I assure you, it'd be more interesting than this tomb of locked-away memory doors. Picking them open one at a time takes _forever._ " 

Locked away? Ford's sharp mind spun faster than Mabel in a giant hamster ball. If this was real, then what Bill was saying was that the memory gun hadn’t _destroyed_ any memories so much as _buried_ them. His brother could still be in there. Maybe even Fiddleford, too. Surely there was a way to extract the memories, holding Bill seperate like a cockroach in a glass jar until a better solution for his destruction could be found. 

Equations swam before his eyes; everything he'd read on brain surgery advances in the past decade dragged to the forefront of his thoughts. Science had truly continued leaps and bounds in his absence. This must be possible, he could feel it! His heart raced in excitement. 

Then he saw that Bill was watching him slyly, and he fell still. "What's your angle in this?" he asked. "There's no way I'm letting you out into the world again, demon. No matter what." 

Bill shrugged Stan's shoulders, as if this information didn’t bother him in the least. "Your loss." he said. "You know how much smarter you are when I'm around." 

Ford did know. Despite having learned his lesson a hundred times over, he was disgusted with himself when he felt the tiniest prickle of temptation. There was so much knowledge out there he had yet to grasp. Bill made it easier, made him stronger; better than any drug and twice, no, three times, as addictive. 

When Bill stretched and Stan's back popped, he sighed a little. "It was nicer being in the kid's body," he complained, and Ford froze. 

"What did you say?" he asked, train of thought effectively derailed. Bill looked up at him, and the devious expression, if at all possible, grew even more so 

"His brain reminds me of yours," Bill said leadingly. "Little Pine Tree. Chip off the old block. I wonder how smart I could make _him..."_

Ford jolted lightening fast, forcing Bill back and gripping him hard by the front of Stan's tank top as he knocked their foreheads together. "Don't you ever," he snarled, enraged as heat built in his face, nearly choking him. _"Ever_ touch my nephew again, you filth." His hands, he realized a moment too late, were trembling. 

"Oh, are we jealous?" Bill asked, and stroked Ford's cheek condescendingly with the back of his hand. "Don't worry, Sixer. You'll always be my _special_ boy." 

Ford was going to throw up. He felt it in his guts. He hoped he wouldn't cry, too. 

"Leave my family alone," he whispered hoarsely. "Just let us be happy." 

His voice broke on the final word. Despite his disadvantaged position, Bill held the stakes here and he played his final card with the relish of one who knew he'd already won. 

"Better be careful. You don't want your brother to have a little accident. That cake sure looked delicious..." 

It took Ford longer than it should have to process the threat, the terrible implication. Bill, in Stan's mind, was rifling through his memories and finding ways to hurt him. Trapping Ford in the same stalemate as the week prior: save the world, or try and save his family instead. "You-" 

"Mr. Pines, Mr. Pines!" 

Ford opened his eyes and looked around, disoriented. He had one hand clamped around a soft throat and the other fist prepared to strike. Morning sunlight briefly obscured his vision and he blinked to clear it, realizing with foggy confusion that it was Soos he was throttling. 

"What-" he muttered, and dropped his fist to rub at his eyes. Soos exhaled in relief. 

"You were having a crazy dream, dude," the twenty-something told him. "I just came by to see if you guys needed help with anything and saw you rolling around and shouting stuff. Are you okay?" 

Cautiously, Ford let go of Soos. Was this one of Bill's tricks? He didn't think so. Soos' brown eyes looked perfectly normal. He tried on a smile. "I'm sorry you had to see that, young man," he apologized stiffly. "It's was a rough night." 

"Oh hey," Soos waved it off. "No problem. You wouldn't believe some of the dreams I've had. There was this one about a marshmallow..." 

Ford tuned out the ramblings of his brother's employee and took another surreptitious look around his home-turned-Mystery-Shack. Stan was nowhere to be seen, his shoes gone from the pile they'd left the night before. Bill's threat made his palms sweat; Stan shouldn't be out by himself, not before they got this weirdness sorted out. 

“Excuse me, Soos,” he pardoned himself, interrupting the man’s story. “I need to find my brother.” 

He grabbed his shoes and let himself out, heart beating a nauseous tattoo into his sternum. 

\---


	3. Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"When I say I'm going to forget you I know it's impossible to forget someone I once knew. What I want is to erase you from my thoughts and purge you from my memories. I'm saying it's what I wish for, not what is or could ever be."_
> 
> \- Donna Lynn Hope 

Walking through the deceptively peaceful woods with morning sunlight dappling pleasantly through picturesque evergreen leaves, Ford struggled to tamp down his anxiety. Surely it was nothing more than a bad dream brought on by too much stress. He wasn’t getting any younger.

"Stan! Stanley! Where are you?"

He narrowly avoided walking into a tree when a rustling noise made him glance over his shoulder. He saw nothing, but that didn't necessarily mean anything: these woods were not for human, plant, and animal alone. Stanley wasn't even in a state of mind where he could deal with the magical flora and fauna of this town, was he?

Suddenly the bright and peaceful morning seemed sinister. Who knew what was hiding behind every corner? He felt eyes burning him from every angle- each tree suddenly a potential threat. He pressed on by reminding himself of his twin: Stan could have walked into untold danger. He could-

"You found me."

The voice came from much lower than Ford was anticipating and he nearly tripped over his brother, who was sitting in the shade of some tall trees with his legs crossed. The relief that coursed through Ford was steadying and he took a few deep breaths before speaking.

"Hey, uh, Stan. What'cha doing out here?" he tried to keep any trace of the worry he'd felt out of his voice. He needn't have bothered, as Stan's attention was captivated by the object he studied, hidden under a tangle of roots as if it had stood there for years.

Kneeling down, Ford looked over Stan's shoulder at the thing on the ground.

He blinked, and looked again.

Then again.

Every time he reopened his eyes, the miniature stone statue of Bill remained, mossy and overgrown as a long-forgotten lawn ornament.

"Oh, Stan-" Ford said, and wondered what to say next. Did he demand they get up, resume the work they'd begun the day before? Maybe suggesting a walk to the gas station to see if the ice cream machines were up and running would provide adequate distraction. Or...

"He told me where to find this," Stan confessed. "Last night, in a dream." When Ford turned uncertain eyes onto his twin, Stan clarified, "that's him, right? The thing that ended the world, that I can't remember defeating."

Numbly, Ford nodded. When Stan continued looking at him with that unnerving stare, he felt himself cracking.

"Let's get away from here, Stan. I can't stand to look at him." He stood and offered the other man a hand. Stan reached for it, and then hesitated; Ford realized that Stan had noticed his extra finger. Self consciously, he closed his fist and dropped it to his side.

Biting down hard on his inner cheek, Ford finally asked, "Stan, if I tell you what happened, will you promise not to come back here?"

Stan thought about this offer, and then shook his head. "Don't need to tell me nothin'," he said gruffly. "I wanted to stop that thing, right? He, he was gonna hurt those kids. It was my choice?"

Ford nodded. "He was, and it was."

"Then, I suppose I'll just have to trust old me," Stan concluded. At Ford's surprised expression, he gave a grin. "Not only am I the handsome one, but I'm the noble and brave one too. Are there any ballads about me yet?"

Ford smirked and rolled his eyes, then felt touched when Stan reached up and gripped Ford’s hand firmly, as if to make up for his previous lapse. He pulled his brother to his feet and dusted some of the grass and leaves from his back.

As they walked back in the direction of the shack, Ford decided to fill Stan in on the essentials.

"That triangle guy... he kind of became a part of your destroyed memories. And I think he's going to try and use you to return, or use your weaknesses to threaten me into bringing him back, for your sake."

Stan chewed over this thought for a few paces before asking, "What do you mean by, 'use my weaknesses'?" He didn't sound offended, merely confused. 

Ford recalled his dream from the night prior and cut straight to his most pressing worry. "The strawberries. What were you thinking when you took them? What was going through your mind?"

Stan shrugged in an overly defensive motion, arms falling heavily against his sides. "I wasn't thinking anything! They were there, so I took them. I didn't know any reason not to."

In a way it was a reassuring and plausible response. On the other, the concept of Bill so deep in Stan's subconscious that the man couldn't tell a demon's whisperings from his own thoughts was not only possible, but alarmingly plausible. The thought made Ford twitch, paranoid; there was no way of knowing for sure.

Up ahead they saw that their shack was now occupied by a trio of mop-haired ginger teens being directed by Soos. Ford frowned as he watched two boys boost Wendy to the remnants of an upstairs window, where she used a staple gun to seal a tarp over the hole in the wall. Soos stood slightly behind, arms extended, as if to catch her should she fall.

"And what are you kids doing?" Ford asked, his trained voice sounding pleasant and unworried.

Without looking away- his protective tendencies seemed to have only grown through the events that had transpired- Soos explained, "We thought we'd help you out. Manly Dan's already got the Corduroy place more or less fixed up."

"There!" Wendy exclaimed with satisfaction, and fearlessly let herself fall. Her brothers caught her with the grace and ease of professional cheerleaders.

"Nice job, Wendy," Stan said distractedly, and ruffled her hair as he passed her, entering the house. "Why couldn't you have applied a work ethic like that when you actually worked for me?" He shot this over his shoulder with a teasing grin that she rolled her eyes at.

Ford watched this display with head cocked slightly. Stan had managed to cobble together an act so seamless with his original personality through nothing more than studying Mabel's scrapbook that Wendy, who'd known and worked with Stan for many months now, didn't seem to notice the difference. He really was quite the con artist.

Soos and the teens made quick work of the outside of the shack- soon each broken first-floor window was covered with a tarp ("Just until we can get proper glass fitted in," the red-headed boys assured them) and the bigger cracks were plastered over.

"Tyler says we're not allowed to work on the roof without adult supervision," Wendy grouched. At Soos' questioning noise she explained: "dad finally got the guts to ask Mayor Cutebiker out after everything that happened. He said it was unmanly to be afraid of his feelings."

"Well _finally,"_ Stan exhaled, shaking his head. "Do we count as supervising adults?"

Much of the afternoon passed this way; Ford and the teenagers worked on the roof and upper floors with Soos and Stan inside to make the space habitable once more. When Wendy declared the place rainproof, they group stopped for a break.

Using Mabel's salvaged mattress as a bench, the four youngsters shared a lunch of slightly squashed sandwiches with coffee from thermoses to wash it down.

"You know," Wendy remarked. "If you don't plan on reopening the Mystery Shack, you might want to just seal off the attic until next summer and stay down on the first floor. There's still a lot of problems upstairs to deal with and it'll save on heating."

Ford and Stan glanced at each other, considering. Ford remembered telling Stan he'd have to move out at the end of the summer, but how could he ask him to do that now, in the state he was in? He was glad Stan couldn't remember that particular argument.

"I suppose that would be best," Ford decided. "Fall is coming." Gravity Falls temperature fluctuated rapidly in Autumn; it wasn't a good time to have a house full of holes.

"We can get dad to build you a temporary dividing wall, for privacy," the boy with hair falling over his eyes grunted.

"And I'll set up your plumbing, once I'm done fixing Abuelita's," Soos offered.

Looking at their eager and slightly sunburned faces (the boy who'd spoken still had a split lower lip, and the other had a shiny red burn on his arm; Wendy herself had a bruised cheek from the events of the apocalypse) it hit Ford that they, and the rest of the town, had behaved exceptionally kindly towards them lately.

The group didn't stay long after that, but promised to come back as soon as they were able. Stan watched them go.

"They're good kids," he said, the same thing he'd said about the young Pines twins leaving.

"They're grateful to you," Ford explained his theory. "Wendy and Soos were there; they saw you save everyone."

He'd expected Stan to be pleased or touched by the news, but it only made his neutral expression darken to a frown. "I didn't do it for any noble reason or whatever," he mumbled. "From what it sounds like, I just wanted to save those two kids."

Ford wondered at this abrupt change in mood. "Yes, because wanting to save your family from a demon isn't enough," he said, and then regretted his sarcasm when the stormclouds on Stan's face darkened further. 

"I need to piss," he grunted, and stepped outside again, leaving Ford rolling his eyes in frustration at his brother’s many moods. 

Knowing better than to chase after him when he wore that expression, Ford sighed and stepped to one of the gallons of water they'd brought back from town, pouring some into a bowl and using a cloth to wash his face and hands. 

When he looked into the mostly intact mirror they'd propped beside the washing bowl, he startled back, then leaned in close to examine his own eyes. It was merely a trick of the light, a crack running across the mirrored surface. His eyes were the same as they always were. _You’re losing it, Pines,_ he thought to himself. _Keep it together._

\--- 


	4. Dancing Bears, Painted Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I looked at him like a stranger, someone I’d never seen before, and he looked at me like I’d been lost to him for a thousand years and finally found."_
> 
> \- Emme Rollins, _Dear Rockstar_

Stan didn't much see the point of telling Ford what was going on in his head. It would only worry him and besides- he'd chosen this, hadn't he? He could handle it.

Mostly it wasn't so bad. When he was awake, he could shove the little gremlin in the corner of his brain, tune him out entirely. It was when he felt exhausted- such as after yet another day in the endless cycle of repairing Gravity Falls- when things took a turn for the weird. 

That was why this night, when he felt his bare feet hit the wooden floor of the shack without him telling them to do so, he was immediately on high alert and scrabbling for control of his mind and body. 

**Too late!** Bill cackled. His voice grated on Stan’s nerves- everything seemed to amuse the creature, as if none of the world’s troubles could ever touch him. **Damn, you're a light sleeper, aren'tcha?**

Of course he was a light sleeper; he'd been homeless for years, the time period sprinkled intermittently with prison sentences, and after decades of run-ins with both the mob and the law he had watched his own twin get sucked into an alternate dimension as a grand finale. He didn't remember any of these things first-hand, but Bill had taken a perverse delight in showing him the worst of it, over and over again in the manor of old film reels. 

Bill walked them past the temporary dividing wall Dan had set up between the two beds in what had previously functioned as the television room, approaching where Ford lay oblivious to the world. He slept on his back, an arm over his eyes, mouth parted and snoring softly. 

**Awww, ain't he the cutest,** Bill crooned. **No offense Tubbs, but as far as identical twins go he seems to have gotten the looks _and_ the brains. **

Stan was too used to these taunts to be particularly bothered by them. _You're just saying that because you're mad that we have bodies and you don't,_ he pointed out. 

Perhaps it was unwise to highlight painful truths to a demon that currently had control of one's body. He felt the anger that pulsed through Bill, quick and hot as a living creature, and found it satisfying: finally he’d rattled the thing. 

**At least I don't age and rot the way you gut-bags do,** Bill snarled. **Look how soft he's gotten- he’s like a moldy old grape!**

Stan's attention was drawn to how Ford's hair was now more gray than brown, how wrinkles had settled as frames to his features, the softness of his arms and belly. 

**Ten years from now you pathetic humans will be six feet under, or else diapered and drooling burdens on your family like you were when you came into this world. I'll still be here.** Bill laughed; it was not a happy sound. **What good will his brains do him then?**

Stan knew he’d discovered a sore spot, and decided recklessly to press on it. _It does matter,_ he told the demon. _Because we never really die._ He showed Bill images of Dipper, of Mabel. _We live on in those whose lives we changed. Are your kind even capable of change? How many centuries have you remained exactly as you are?_

Bill considered this for exactly half a moment. **I could kill every last one of you.** Was the eventual, petulant response. 

Immediately aware of the childishness of his tone, he was quick to focus Stan's attention to a loose nail in the dividing wall, and then looked to the side of Ford's throat, where a trace of an artery could be seen through his fair skin. 

Despite his resolve to keep the upper hand, Stan could feel his pulse racing. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Bill was unstable enough to act on his threats for no reason other than to prove a point. _I’m sorry. I take it back._

Chuckling, Bill warped the images of Mabel and Dipper that Stan had conjured, twisting them until they were mangled remains of children; an exposed ribcage, an indigo tongue lolling between parted, chalk-colored lips. Stan could hear flies buzzing and smell the offal. He struggled not to panic or gag. 

**What's to stop me from putting your old body on the next bus to California? I'm sure they'd be delighted to see you...** Bill reached for the nail, wrapping Stan’s fingers around it one digit at a time. 

Wrenching his spirit as hard as he could, a similar motion of grabbing a steering wheel away from a car’s driver, Stan let out a harsh bark of protest. 

The sudden return of bodily control had Stan dizzy and disoriented; he stumbled and caught his balance on Ford’s bedpost. Woken by the sound, his eyes flew open. 

"Are you alright?!” Ford gasped, clapping a hand to his undoubtedly pounding heart. 

"Yeah, yeah," Stan insisted, trying shake the experience off. “Just got up to get some water; go back to sleep.” 

Ford did not look convinced. Reaching, he touched the back of his hand to Stan's forehead. "You're sweating," he observed. 

"Yeah well," Stan grumbled, returning to his own bed. "You're no fairy princess yourself." 

Neither man slept again that night. 

When sunlight streamed through the crooked slats of the house's wooden frame, Ford approached Stan's bed with a heavy-looking cardboard box in his arms. He cleared his throat awkwardly when Stan looked at him. "May I?" he asked, and Stan moved a few inches over so that Ford could sit down. 

"I was afraid these things were destroyed in everything that happened," Ford said. "But it seems most of the attic held up fairly well. Go on; open it up." 

Raising an eyebrow, Stan did as instructed and slid his thumbnail into the brown parcel tape that sealed the box. It was quite dusty as he pulled the flaps open to reveal a mess of things; slippery polaroids, glossy digital photos of various sizes. There were papers, too, and what could only be a necklace made from dried macaroni. Ford dumped the lot of it onto Stan's bed. 

"Shermie gave me the box when mom died," Ford explained. "I never looked inside; I was too busy... and too cowardly." 

"Shermie... our little brother?" Stan clarified, and Ford nodded, sorting through the photos and holding one up of a child, about fourteen. 

"Hey!" Stan exclaimed, taking it from him to examine it more closely. "He looks like Dipper." On the back in loopy cursive penmanship it said only, _Sherman Pines, 1984._ He looked up to meet Ford's eyes. "Quite a bit younger than us, huh?" 

Ford nodded. "Ma and pop weren't expecting another baby. That was part of the reason they were so stressed out when we were in high school. Money was tight. Shermie always had big chip on his shoulder 'cuz of that, thinking he was unwanted." 

That explained why Bill hadn't used any unpleasant memories of Shermie to torment Stan; there simply weren't any to be found in the broken remnants of his brain. The thought made him feel melancholy for the boy in the photograph. 

"I wasn't there for him," Ford confessed. "I was too busy chasing my own dreams. He died young." 

Wanting to halt this train of thought, Stan only nodded and then quickly selected another photo. Two very little boys were in this one, and the same handwriting on the back said: _"Stanford and Stanley Pines, first day of school. 1959."_

The two kindergartners in the black-and-white image were indeed wearing matching bookbags and holding identical paper sacks for their lunches, smiling toothily for the camera. Stan found he could not tell himself apart from his brother, until he looked closer and counted their fingers. 

"Do you remember this day?" he asked Ford, who shook his hand side-to-side, so-so. "I enjoyed school right away, I remember that," he said. "You didn't really have the attention span for it. You wanted to be outside exploring." 

One by one they went through the photographs in the box, and Ford provided input on each one, enough so that Stan was able to piece together the shape of the life he had lived. The beginning of it, anyway. He didn't sugar-coat much, and for that Stan was grateful. 

It was when they got to the letters that Ford took a deep breath, steeling himself. 

"I didn't talk to ma and pop much," he told Stan. "Not after I left for college. We didn't get along very well, but I knew some things. I knew you went to prison, Stanley, and I did nothing to help you. And if you choose to hate me for what you read, well, I don't blame you." 

Stan nodded. Bill had shown him some things- fists in his face, a knife in his ribs. There were other things, too, things he didn't wish to think about but had fascinated Bill upon discovery. 

He took the first letter offered to him, stared at the handwriting that was clearly his own. "1973," he read aloud, and glanced at Ford. "We were teenagers." 

Ford sighed, and gestured for Stan to keep reading. 

It was a short letter to their mother, advising her not to worry, that he'd never get in trouble like that again, that he was only put in the drunk tank for one night, honest and was perfectly fine. 

When he looked up, Ford was holding another letter. "This one's from me," he said. "1975." 

Stan took it, and read the neat, small handwriting aloud. "Dear ma," hearing himself try to imitate Ford's voice as he read, he cleared his throat, embarrassed, and quickly switched back to his own gravelly tones. "School is going very well. I'm enjoying my physics class immensely, but have found multiple errors in the text book. I wrote a letter to the editor-" 

He stopped reading, sighed, reached to rub his eyes under his glasses. "I can see what you're doing," he accused. "You're trying to make yourself look bad. You want me to say it? Yeah, you were an ass. I clearly needed you, and you weren't there. Can you stop feeling guilty now?" 

Ford's thick eyebrows inched together, resembling two concerned caterpillars as he regarded his brother. "Stanley, don't you get it? I-" 

"I _do not care,"_ Stan said, with feeling. "You're so worried of what this guy thinks of you-" he held up a photograph of himself, age seventeen, looking young and carefree and handsome. "But that's not me anymore. I barely know him. Can we focus on now?" 

Ford regarded him thoughtfully before finally sighing. "Stanley, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of what's happened between us. The past thirty years of our lives before this summer, I've only seen you once. You used to be my best friend, and then we hated each other, and then you saved the world and can't remember the good or the bad. It's hard to carry these heavy feelings alone." 

"How can I offer you forgiveness for something I can't even remember?!" Stan felt curdled with frustration. Ford kept straying back to the same thing, mind completely one-tract. "If I said I forgave you it'd mean nothing. Some bad things happened, and we're still here. That's something. It's not your fault dad kicked me out, anyway." 

Stan knew he’d messed up when he heard the breath catch in Ford’s lungs, felt his brother’s eyes suddenly very intent on his face. The air in the room seemed to have frozen in place and inwardly he groaned. _What did I do now?_

"I don't think I mentioned that it was dad who kicked you out," Ford said slowly. "In fact, I don't recall it being brought up that you were kicked out in the first place." 

Stan swallowed hard: the con was up. Ford was completely right. He knew those things only because it was one of Bill's favorite memories to replay. The fear he'd felt as a teenager, the loss, the betrayal, provided endlessly amusing emotions to reenact in the old man, as was the ensuing panic: how would he make enough money to satisfy his parents? How would he graduate high school? How would he _eat?_

"It was a guess," he stammered, recalling too late Ford's words from before: _you can lie to anyone else, but not to me._ He bit his lip and met his brother's eyes, resigned to having spilled the beans. 

It didn't take long, then, for Ford to read the truth in his face. "Bill is still there, isn't he," he said. There was no question, only certainty, and there was horror in the revelation. "... Stanley?" 

Unable to keep looking at him, Stan closed his eyes. When he finally reopened them, his pupils were slitted as a cat's. 

"Heya, IQ," Bill said, grinning widely. "Took you long enough." 

\--- 


	5. Heave, Ho, the Sun Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Why am I not scared in the morning?_
> 
> _I don't hear those voices calling,_
> 
> _I must have kicked them out, I must have kicked them out,_
> 
> _I swear I heard demons yelling,_
> 
> _Those crazy words they were spelling,_
> 
> _They told me I was gone, they told me I was gone._
> 
> \- Twenty One Pilots, _Ode to Sleep_

_"You're so smart, Bill. I think you and I... we have a real connection, don't we."_

_"Well sure we do, Sixer! You're special. Not like anyone else."_

_"I... I like you a lot, Bill. You understand me."_

_"I like you too, kiddo. Hey, why don't you hurry and get that portal built? Then we can_ finally _be together, for real. Just me and you."_

Stan cringed at the echo of Ford's infatuated, youthful voice. Bill had been playing his sappy words on a loop for almost an hour now, like an old record scratching. 

_If I didn't know better,_ he told the demon. _I'd say you still hold a flame for my brother._

Bill scoffed at this. **You've got it backwards, Tubbs. He was the one with the pathetic heart eyes. Humans are so easy to use. You know how much he cried when I left? _Boo-hoo-hoo_ all night long. **

_I'm not so sure about that,_ Stan argued. _I've sensed some things._

Before Bill could stop him, he _pressed,_ much like sticking a thumb into an egg yolk, and then thoughts and memories that had never been his were running through him, free to examine. 

_Ha!_ he exclaimed triumphantly. _You were so upset when he didn't want to join you. Just another human, huh? Looks like you were the one boo-hooing. Did you think you two would rule as kings together, have your sick little fairy tale ending?_

**It's because he is _mine!_ ** Bill snarled, flaring red as he forced Stanley away from his private thoughts. **He gave himself to me, and now here he goes thinking he's his own man again. It doesn't work like that!**

_You still think you have a chance with him, don't you,_ Stan mocked. _You think you can change his mind. Gotta break it to you: You disgust him. He doesn't want anything to do with you. And the second he figures out how, he will squash you like a bug._

He regretted his defiant thoughts a moment later when Bill sat him up in his bed so forcefully that the cloth restraints pinning his hands to the corners of the mattress bit into his skin and then tore. The pain was so sharp and sudden that Stan gasped, staring in horror as Bill used Stan's newly freed hands to untie his ankles and stand. 

**You forget your place, human scum!** Bill boomed, all traces of smooth charisma gone and replaced with primitive, base rage. **I'll show you how I feel about Stanford Pines.**

With great strength he threw open the circular wooden door of Stan's new bedroom, bare feet thudding on the steps as he climbed to the main deck of the Stan-o-War. It was chilly upstairs, the strong wind blowing the sails out taut as stars twinkled in the blackness overhead. The roar of the ocean was all Stan could hear as his body was propelled towards the captain's quarters. 

Ford was always so cautious, so precise; all sharp instruments catalogued and locked away by day's end, but he'd made a fatal mistake this night and Bill grabbed the uncapped ballpoint pen off his notes with glee. 

**Mightier than the sword, eh Tubbs?** He chuckled, brandishing his new weapon and throwing open Ford's door with a bang.

"Heeeere's Billy!" he sang, and Ford sat up in his bed, mouth falling open in shock but no sound coming out.

"Miss me?" Bill giggled manically as he threw himself atop the man. Ford didn't have a moment to protest before the pen was plunged with full force into his left eye. He screamed, high and terrible, flailing and trying to push Stan's body off of himself. 

Bill held on with ease, pinning Ford back against the bed by his throat with one hand and using the other to grind the pen in deeper. Stan felt his brother's struggles grow weaker underneath him, his shrieks faint as clear viscous jelly and hot red liquid bubbled from his ruined eye, coating his face. 

_Stop, stop, please stop, please stop._ Bill! _Please!_ Stan begged frantically, but Bill wasn't listening. Ford, systems overloaded by pain and blood loss, fainted and Bill stooped to scoop him over one shoulder and carry him to the deck. Blood spattering on the wooden floor was the loudest sound in the world. 

_Please don't, please Bill, I'll do whatever you say,_ Stan begged. It didn't matter: Bill threw Stan's brother overboard, pen and all. The splash was drowned out by the crashing waves. 

"Captain Bill says we turn this ship around!" he giggled. "Next stop: California!" 

A knocking on the door jolted Stan awake with a gasp. His eyes darted left and right, nervously. He was still in his little circular bedroom, still strapped to his bed. He wiggled his toes; they were his to wiggle. These nightmares were getting ridiculous. 

"Come on in," he said, trying to make his voice sound normal, to school his expression into good-natured wakefulness. 

Ford opened his door and stepped inside. "Good morning Stanley," he greeted, perfunctory as he unlaced the straps from his twin's wrists and ankles. "Did you sleep well?" 

"Sure did," Stan said. "The waves rocked me like a baby." He sat up and stretched, surreptitiously wiping the sweat from his brow as he did so. The second Ford stepped out to give him some privacy, Stan hurried to the washbowl and was violently sick.

With shoulders heaving, he rinsed out his mouth and looked at his red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. They'd been at sea for four months, and Ford had taken every precaution should Bill take over Stanley's body again. Bereft of anything else to do the demon instead took to attacking his mind whenever possible. 

_"Here's Billy?"_ Stan rolled his eyes at his own reflection. "Wow, you're running out of good material." The demon might make his nights a living hell, but he would not take away Stan's sense of humor. 

When he felt composed enough he left his room, following the same path he had in his dream- up the steps and onto the deck. In reality, the waters were crystalline blue and the morning sunlight was soft through the clouds; the brisk salty air cooled his too-warm skin as he entered the captain's quarters and found his brother typing furiously into his laptop. 

"How are the stingrays?" he asked. His stomach was too queasy still for much more than weak tea and dry toast, which he fixed before joining his twin at the table. 

"Migrating North..." Ford muttered, a furrow between his brow. "Goes against their pattern. Interesting." 

"Hm," was Stan's mumbled response. He stole an uneaten orange slice off of Ford's plate; the distracted scientist didn't even look up to scold him. 

They had taken a job with, of all places, the University of Sydney's marine biology department, tagging and tracking _Dasyatis fluviorum_. It was below Ford's considerable skill level, but it gave them the funds and resources they needed to be at sea for months at a time while they worked on their _other_ project. 

A soft _bloop_ sound caught his attention, and Stan glanced at Ford's tablet screen: _Incoming Skype Call,_ the white-on-blue text read. _David Pines._

"Kids!" Stan whooped, and hurried to move his chair next to Ford's as he tapped the _accept call_ button. 

A second's pause, and then Dipper and Mabel's faces filled their screen. "Hi Grunkle Stan!" Mabel exclaimed enthusiastically, at the same time that Dipper said a more reserved hello to Ford. They were lying belly-down on their living room carpet, fresh from after-school activities, with Mabel's hair in a long plait over her shoulder. 

"What are you two wacky scamps doing today, huh?" she asked, voice crackly over the connection. In the background they saw a pair of feminine legs walk by, likely their mother, followed by a portly pink pig. 

"Ooh, we caught something big in our nets today!" Stan said, and wiggled his eyebrows, master storyteller as always. Pretending to look nervously over his shoulder for eavesdroppers, he leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially, "I think it might be a mermaid." 

Mabel's jaw dropped, cheeks pinking in excitement. "Wow!" she said. "I dated a merman once..." Her eyes got a faraway look as she pressed a hand to her heart. 

"Love hurts, kid," Stan said, nodding empathetically. 

"How is school going?" Ford asked. He'd worked with them on their math and science homework on nights when sleep was difficult. 

They chatted back and forth for some time, stopping only when their father called them for dinner. He crouched as his children stood, bracing a hand on the floor to smile at his father's brothers. 

"Hello David," Ford greeted cordially. Stan knew that Ford's guilt regarding David Pines was strong, feeling they should have been there for their nephew as he had to grow up without a father. 

"Hey, Uncles!" He was cheerful, bright. It was hard to imagine him as a computer technician, but then it was likely just as difficult to imagine the two of them as people who tracked stingrays and fought demons. One did what they had to. 

"You've got some great kids, Dave," Stan said with feeling. "We love them." His voice was gruff, but his words were honest. Losing his memory had allowed Stan to fall in love with the two all over again. 

"Yeah, I do." David's smile was softer now. "I really do. And they talk about you two all the time. I just wanted you to know that you're welcome to visit us whenever you want, if you're ever in the area." 

"David!" Hazel Pines called. "The garlic bread-" 

"Oh, oops!" David laughed, his smile all Mabel as he scrambled back to his feet. "Oh no, it's burning-" 

The call disconnected, the screen of the tablet once more taken up by 'ray reports. 

"Stan..." Ford said quietly, and reached to put a hand on his brother's arm. 

"It's fine," Stan interrupted, and stood to collect their breakfast things to wash. "It doesn't matter." 

"Stanley, I promise you'll be able to someday. I _promise-"_

"Just leave it!" Stanley replied sharply. "No, I won't be able to 'just visit the kids,' Ford, and you know why! You keep me prisoner on this boat for a reason." 

Visibly hurt, Ford stopped advancing towards Stan, letting the space between them grow. They both knew the words were true. Stan was a prisoner, not of the ship, but of his own mind. Even the ship's steering mechanisms were kept locked under a code inaccessible to him. 

"I told you I'd find a way to fix it, and I meant it," Ford said. "I don't care how long it takes. You worked to bring me back for thirty years, Stanley. Just let me figure out how to do the same for you. Please, believe me." His eyes were wide and sorrowful. 

Stan sighed, his shoulders drooping. He could still hear Ford's faint screams from his dream the night before, and they had him on edge. Closing the gap between them, he linked an arm around Ford's shoulders and then pulled him in for an awkward sibling hug, complete with back pats. 

Surprised, Ford returned the embrace. "Are you alright, Stan?" he asked after he pulled away to hold him at arms length, examining his face. 

Stan shrugged. "I've been better. But you're right. It's not the time to give up hope." He clapped Ford firmly on the shoulders and offered him a boisterous grin. "Come on, old man; we've got sea pancakes to study." 

Looking bemused, Ford followed him upstairs. The tablet screen stayed bright for a few minutes before defaulting to it's screensaver: an old picture of two smiling young boys sitting side-by-side in a cardboard box pained with the words _Stan-O-War._

\--- _fin_ \--- 


End file.
